


Musa Procax

by fatdumplings



Category: Carmilla (Web Series), Carmilla - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Human!Carmilla, Jealous Carmilla, laura's a babe, writer!carmilla
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 04:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9583673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatdumplings/pseuds/fatdumplings
Summary: Unbeknownst to her friends, Carmilla has been writing trashy, semi-erotic romance novels for cash.Fiction is fiction, bearing no roots in real life, which is why she sure as hell doesn't need to worry about anyone discovering her secret.Until, of course, Laura does.In other words: five times Carmilla writes about Laura, and the one time Laura finds out.AU.





	

**Five.**

Carmilla grins. 

She has been doing it a lot lately. Tuesday, when her broken laptop finally got fixed and became able to show her more than just static. In the flashy store downtown on Saturday, as she tugs on that pair of skintight leather pants she's been eyeing for the past six months. At the bar last week, buying drinks for the cute sweaty girl on the dance floor. She keeps getting this odd, tight feeling in her cheeks and that's when she realises she has been grinning like an idiot for God knows how long, and that her face is about to fall off. 

Like now. 

It is Friday, and Laura and LaFontaine are sitting across from her, beaming as they pick up their first round of drinks. Drinks courtesy of Carmilla, and not just with a handful of scraped together coins, but with fresh twenties smelling of ink and fortune and many more grinning days to come. 

It is a good, good evening. 

“Magazine must be doing well, eh?” LaFontaine quips, smacking their lips. “You're _rich_.”

Well. 

_Nine Days_ is indeed doing well, but it is not responsible for Carmilla’s veritable surges of new money. 

Not that her friends need to know, because Carmilla changes the subject every time the conversation steers toward this particular sticky spot. She doesn't quite want people asking about the subpar fashion articles she is not longer writing. She isn't _embarrassed_ , of course, because Carmilla Karnstein isn't embarrassed about anything, thank you very much. She doesn't give a fuck about what people are going to say if they find out, because it's not those peripheral half-acquaintances that she’s worried about, anyway. 

It’s _Laura_ — and her other friends, of course — who is well, different, so to speak. 

She has seen students at Silas with her books. Those books are incredibly elusive — carefully slid out of sight, tucked around corners and furtive giggles — but Carmilla recognises the hushed whispers of her pseudonym well enough to know what they are. And really, with that kind of excitable secrecy, they might just as well be parading their paperback copies around for all to see. 

Rationally, she has no reason to be afraid of people drawing the connection between her and her books. Now, this is something she has taken care of. There are no tiny blonde roommates or science-loving geeks or overprotective redheads, no dark-haired philosophy student with a penchant for antagonism. 

The protagonist bears no resemblance to Carmilla whatsoever. A lovely androgynous geophysicist fresh out of college, Jo has spent Carmilla’s first two trashy semi-erotic romance novels juggling her affections for three love interests: an introverted and excruciatingly adorable childhood friend called Cassie, a sultry femme siren singing at a downtown Italian bar — who turns out to be a vampire, no less — by the name of Rachel, and, somehow, an enigmatic biochemical researcher, Raven, who is secretly employed by a shady governmental association. Archetypes plucked out of just about every girl’s fantasies, the characters and events don't actually find find any roots in real life. Rachel, for one, has perennially flawless skin despite eating out everyday, eyes so expressive their colours change according to her mood, and a mansion. 

And so Carmilla doesn't worry. 

The sun is setting behind them now. LaFontaine is re-telling Laura their age-old puns, and Laura is throwing her hair back and giggling as though she hasn't already heard them fifty times in the past month. 

“Carm, this is important. Why is it so stressful to escape a clock tower?” LaFontaine wiggles their eyebrows at Carmilla’s face, and Laura bursts out laughing. 

“Because you're _running out of time_!” says Laura, and Carmilla sighs, loud and dramatic. God, really, the two of them never change, and alcohol doesn't exactly help, either. Carmilla snorts, inhaling a mouthful of her drink as LaFontaine actually turns pink, gasping for breath. 

“I can't believe I fucking know the two of you,” she says calmly with a roll of her eyes. 

Laura is doubling over with mirth and hooting with laughter. In a bright blonde wave, her untied mop of hair spills over her side as she slaps the table in glee and high-fives LaFontaine. The glowing orange of the setting sun ignites the crown of her head and illuminates the faint birthmark that disappears into her fringe. It sings through her hair and burnishes her skin gold. 

“Don't be like that!” Laura crows, oversized shirt slipping to reveal her creamy, bare shoulders. Vaguely, Carmilla appreciates — probably not for the first time — just how bloody _tiny_ the shorts she is wearing are, all riding up her thighs as she dangles her legs over the seat. In a fluid motion, Laura throws her sun-gold hair over her shoulders and winks at Carmilla with her head tilted the wrong way up. “I know you love us.” 

And. 

Well. 

Ah. 

“Cupcake, I do have standards,” Carmilla says coolly, downing her drink. 

And if her stomach is feeling a lot warmer than usual and her heart is doing that weird fuzzy thing that happens when Laura smiles at her, and an embarrassingly foolish smile is spreading irrevocably across her face _again_ , it's hardly her fault. And hardly something she’ll be thinking about for prolonged periods of time later when she is alone. 

Really. 

And if she takes that evening to write that sweet lovescene between Jo and Cassie she's been holding off for the past month due to a lack of inspiration — well, it’s not like anything symbolically connects. 

—

—

—

 **Four**.

Laura is studying with Danny this evening. 

No, she isn't just studying with Danny. In fact, she is — just like she has for the past two fucking weeks — putting their heads much, much closer together than Carmilla deems strictly necessary for academic discussions. They're sitting so cosily their thighs are practically pressed together, and Danny has a rather disturbing habit of touching Laura everywhere — on the knee, the back, on the bloody shoulder — and _god_ , Carmilla just wants to leap to her feet and yell at someone. 

A certain oversized redhead, preferably. 

And, what the hell, Laura is smiling in that wonderful way that usually makes Carmilla think of sunshine and bubblegum and all kinds of stupidly good things, the table lamp throwing the loveliest shadows on her face. But it is not Carmilla that Laura is looking at, it's Danny; Laura is grinning like she can't get enough of what Danny is saying, like she can stare at Danny all night. 

Carmilla rolls her eyes and snaps her book shut with a lot more force than necessary. 

“Are you going to be done soon?” she asks irritably, body all taut and restless and annoyed. “It's midnight. Some of us would really appreciate some sleep.”

Laura swivels round on her chair to face her. Her expression has become all cool and frowny and nothing like the way she has spent the past fortnight ogling Danny.

“It's only ten, Carmilla. And it's not like I don't know full well that you've never slept before two in the morning.”

Carmilla opens her mouth to retort, but then Danny is anxiously getting up, sweeping her hair behind her shoulders as she gathers up her things. 

“I should really go. It's late. Sorry, Carmilla,” she babbles, and Carmilla just crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows, ostentatiously tapping her foot on the floor. 

“Do you have to go?” Laura asks, turning back to Danny again and getting to her feet and reaching for the door. 

As Danny is about to leave, though, Laura leans forward and presses a kiss to her cheek. She has to stand up on her toes to do it. She pulls away and they are both grinning again, and Danny ruffles Carmilla’s tiny roommate’s hair, Laura’s smile all wide and open and _adorable_ as she stares up at the redhead. “See you, Danny!”

Carmilla knows how it feels to get punched in the gut and this is exactly how it’s like. 

Laura doesn't speak much to her for the rest of the night, and Carmilla doesn’t try to she and Laura don't speak much. Carmilla ditches academia and opts to continue on the third book of her series with twitchy, restless fingers. There is a lot of yelling in this new scene, in which Jo has an intense, semi-drunken fight with Rachel — which results, of course, in them tearing each others’ clothes off and resolving their tension via semi-explicit hatesex. Carmilla relishes every melodramatic word of it all. 

It doesn't quite make her feel better, though. 

—

—

—

**Three.**

“Jo broke up with Raven! How can Jo break up with Raven? I swear, I fucking swear, I —”

Carmilla watches, more than a little amused, as Laura jumps up and down and glares at Carmilla's — though she doesn't know it yet — book as though it has just dealt her a mortal wound. 

“I think the writer intends for Jo to ultimately end up with Cassie,” Carmilla says, biting her lip to stop the peal of ironic mirth from bursting out. She's really deriving a disproportionate amount of pleasure from this. 

“I know...” Laura grumbles, throwing herself back into her seat. “Of course I know that! Everyone's talking about Cassie this and that and obviously it makes the most sense and will properly resolve the series but — but I just love Raven more. Her and Jo, my wild lesbian scientists who uncover conspiracies and take over the world!” 

Carmilla heaves a dramatic sigh and shakes her head at Laura. Honestly, this is giving her ideas. “You brought this on yourself, sweetie. Who asked you to keep getting attached to the unlucky characters?” 

—

Later, though, during her writing session, Carmilla spends time thinking. She thinks of Jo, Cassie, and technicalities and plot, and Laura. She thinks of Laura subconsciously poking her tongue out in concentration when reading Carmilla's books. She thinks of Laura laughing. 

And wild lesbian scientists, of course. 

She deletes her first draft and opens a new document. 

Six months later, her fourth novel is released. 

—

To the shock of all and sheer outrage of many, a dramatic turn of events — involving secret agents, mutated DNA, and exploding laboratories, no less — that push an enlightened and now deeply endangered Jo back into Raven’s arms. Cassie hooks up with a new girlfriend and Rachel’s attempts at seduction fall flat — for now — and the final chapter eagerly anticipates a truly kickass finale where Raven and Jo, brilliant lesbian scientists, uncover conspiracies and usher in a new golden age. 

Or something. 

Carmilla hasn't figured it all out, but she isn't too fussed about it at the moment. Her books are selling better than ever, helped along by the many witty thinkpieces denouncing them as merely smutty drama with a fancifully unrealistic plot which, of course, just attracts more readers. Carmilla knows for a fact that Laura has procured her own copy from the store that very morning. 

Covertly, she observes Laura as she reads her book over the next couple of days. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches as Laura reaches what must be the climax of the plot, gasps, and clutches the book to her chest with a shout of glee. She looks up from her essay, and, when she is sure that she isn't going to give herself away the moment she opens her mouth, smirks over at Laura. 

“It's almost as if the writer knew exactly what I wanted!” Laura gushes. “Oh, the Cass/Jo shippers are _not_ going to be happy.” 

Laura’s eyes have curved into little smiling crescents, she's grinning so broadly. Her hair is untied again, flopping carelessly about her shoulders as she bounces up and down, and, try as she might, Carmilla gets the mad urge to giggle. It's fucking ridiculous, how the corners of her lips curve traitorously upward and her chest actually vibrates with that bubbly impulse, but there's Laura, looking so delighted, grinning over at her through those smiley crescent eyes, not even noticing as one of the stringy lights hanging by her bed gets caught in her hair. 

Laughter is infectious. 

Carmilla lets herself get infected. 

—

—

—

 **Two.**

Carmilla cracks her eyes open and immediately regrets it. 

Feverish sunlight stabs her square in the face, making her squeeze her eyes tight shut. A pulse of nausea shudders through her, and her head feels filled with boiling tar. 

She groans, pitifully. She hasn't been this hungover in ages. How much did she have last night? 

“Not bad! It's not even noon yet.” 

Laura’s voice is loud and clear and much too bright, and Carmilla fumbles blindly for her sheets to cover her face. 

“Shut up, Hollis,” she moans. “And close the damn curtains.”

Laura obliges. Through her sandpaper eyelids, Carmilla feels the excruciating light ease off, slightly. 

Cautiously, she opens her eyes again. 

“You'd best drink some water,” Laura says. Through the blood coursing through her head, Carmilla hears feet shuffling around the room, and a clink of glass. After a few moments, Laura’s figure appears over her, holding Carmilla’s mug. 

Carmilla just makes an unintelligible croaky noice that she will later deny to the end of her days. 

Laura frowns at her. “Why do I even bother? You'll just throw it up all over me.”

But she still comes over, still sets the mug on the table and puts her hands on Carmilla’s shoulders to help her up. Which is when the feverish haze surrounding Carmilla shifts a little, and she fully registers what Laura is wearing: an oversized flannel pyjama shirt and literally nothing else. 

Carmilla's whole fucking body goes warm. 

Laura’s bun is messy, like she's just rolled out bed, with her shapely legs bare and her cheeks delightfully flushed. Her exquisite collarbones tease at the hem of her shirt and the seductive morning sun glows through her hair. She is staring right into Carmilla with her lips all pink and pouty, and her hip is cocked to one side, like a challenge, every line in her body slow and backlit and gorgeous. 

A shivery tingle buzzes through Carmilla’s fingertips. 

Laura catches her eyes and actually smirks. 

“Like what you're seeing?” she murmurs, voice barely over a whisper. 

And fuck if Carmilla’s next chapter doesn't feature hazy sweaty hangovers and hot blondes. 

—

—

—

**One.**

“The show’s ended, cupcake. You can move now.”

Laura, sprawled across her lap, does not budge. Carmilla pokes her. 

“If you wanted to sleep with me you could have just said so, darling.”

She nudges Laura a little harder with her knee, but Laura just lets out a sleepy snuffle and curls up onto her side, pressing a cheek into Carmilla’s leg and staying resolutely in place. 

Oh, right. Normal people actually feel tired before two in the morning. 

Which is how Carmilla ends up with Laura Hollis asleep in her bed. 

She was not expecting this when she and Laura decided to spend their rare free evening catching up on the latest episodes of _Crimson Heart_ on Carmilla’s laptop, and she doesn't quite know what to do about it. She frowns as she places her computer gingerly on her bedside table. The possibilities are pretty amusing. She can prod Laura awake, of course, and she can also blast heavy metal until Laura starts yelling and scrambling back onto her own bed. 

Just as she reaches out a hand to shake Laura’s shoulders, though, Laura reaches out a soft, tentative hand, curls her arm around Carmilla’s waist, and Carmilla freezes on the spot. 

Well.

Laura feels warm against her. Warm, heavy and so, so soft. Carmilla is acutely aware of the rise and fall of her chest, the puffs of breath against her stomach. 

Sleep has smoothed out the angles of Laura face, curled her full lips into a soft, content sigh. Her hair, carelessly splayed out beneath her, sticks damply to her neck, like that of a dozing child. She smells of lemony shampoo, of freshly sunned pillows and tender dreams. 

The room is silent save the hum of the fan, the whir of Carmilla’s computer, the steady pulse of the clock. The moments breathe through them like the silky curls of incense, like a daydream. 

Carmilla tugs her computer back toward her. She whiles the next hour away trying to put it into words, to describe the feel of Laura against her and the texture of the time flowing by them. Each attempt ends with _wantyouloveyouneedyou_ of monstrous proportions. That's when she scowls, deletes the paragraph entirely, and tries again, until her eyes are itching with tiredness and strange, lucid words are crawling all over the screen. It's not three in the fucking morning for nothing. 

Without even turning her laptop off, Carmilla extricates herself from beneath Laura’s head, pillowed on her lap, and lies down next to her. Her mind spins in slow, wandering circles. Laura’s breathing is steady, deep. 

She falls asleep with Laura’s body curling over hers, like a blanket. 

—

—

—

 

Zero. 

“I really want a book six. Is there going to be a book six, Carmilla Karnstein?” 

Carmilla frowns. Laura has a meaningful smirk playing about her lips, as well as something else twinkling in her expression, something Carmilla cannot quite catch, yet. Carmilla narrows her eyes, ever so slightly. 

“I'm hardly the person you should ask, cupcake,” she says smoothly, returning to her essay. “I'm not even into that series of yours.” 

Laura is leaning forward now. There is a keen glint in her eyes that tells Carmilla that she is up to something. And Laura being up to something usually — no, always — translates to all hell breaking loose. 

Nevertheless, Carmilla holds her own gaze, cool and unblinking. 

“ _Well_.” The word rolls off Laura’s tongue like a breathy, knowing secret. Deviousness slinks into her eyes. “I thought you'd be the best person to ask, since you're the writer.”

“I don't pretend to know what you're—”

“No need to embarrass yourself, Carm. I know.”

Fortunately, Carmilla doesn't forget to to close her mouth so she doesn't look quite like like the foolishly gaping fish she feels like. Fortunately, she certainly doesn't _blush_. Unfortunately, she sure as hell comes close. 

“How?” she asks, keeping her voice light and her face impassive. “How did you find out?”

“You make it sound like it’s some kind of feat.” Laura rolls her eyes. Carmilla’s heart starts a hot, nettled crescendo in her chest. “Honestly. I recognise your writing style too well to be completely fooled. I’d be in the middle of reading about ditzy parlours and chemistry labs and suddenly I’d hear your voice in my head, saying those lines aloud. It was quite annoying.” At this, Laura actually has the gall to smirk. “After that wildly abrupt plot twist where Jo ended up with Raven, LaF made a joke about the series being written by someone who knows me. Which sort of, well, stuck.”

Laura grins, if possible, still wider, smug as the cat that got the cream. “And it really helped that you left your computer on that evening we watched _Crimson Heart_ together. The whole lovely manuscript, Carmilla! Right there for me to see.”

“You — you fucking —” 

Carmilla isn't supposed to be this incoherent. Carmilla is the one who makes others speechless, who makes her enemies choke on their shock as she strikes fear into their hearts just by virtue of her sheer fucking presence. But Laura is smirking coolly up at her, twinkly gaze seeing right through her skin and her words, and Carmilla just wants to throttle her, a little. Carmilla also wants to kiss her. 

“Fancy imagination you got there,” Laura continues, completely unperturbed by the murderous look in Carmilla’s eyes. “People usually base characters on people in real life. Did you do that?” Here, Laura’s smile droops a little, her eyebrows creasing into a frown. “I suppose Elsie gave you inspiration for the love interests. I know the two of you were sleeping together.’

The air goes still. Laura is still staring up at her, and Carmilla’s heartbeat is slowing, inexplicably. The world seems to narrow down, rather exquisitely, to Laura face, her bright eyes, her smile, like a scene in one of those melodramatic movies Laura would never admit to enjoying. 

“You'd better not think so,” Carmilla breathes. “Because it's all about you.”

Laura kisses her. 

It feels like the start of a new story.


End file.
